UC-NRLF 


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LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT    OF 


Class 


Presented  by  a  number  of  those  who  enj 
delightful  talks  of  Dr.   Burton  in  the  Summer 
of  1910,   these  books  are  placed  in  the  Univei 
rary  for  the  stimulation  of  those  who  were  urll 
hear  him  then,   and   for  the   further  pleasure  oft 
so  privileged. 


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LYRICS 
OF   BROTHERHOOD 


LYRICS     OF 
BROTHERHOOD 

RICHARD     BURTON 

sttntnttttmtttmttttn* 


E 


BOSTON 

LOTHROP,    LEE    &    SHEPARD 
COMPANY 


Copyright,  1899,  by 

Small,  Maynard  £sf    Company , 

(Incorporated.) 


Entered  at   Stationers'  HalL 


Due  acknowledgments  are  made  to  the 
editors  of  the  Atlantic,  the  Century,  Har 
per's  Magazine,  the  Cosmopolitan,  the 
Bookman,  the  Critic,  the  Independent, 
and  the  Outlook  for  permission  to  reprint 
poems  originally  appearing  in  those  pub 
lications. 


OF    THE 

(  UNIVERSITY   } 

OF 


1012 


Contents 

BLACK  SHEEP  Page      3 

"  THE  MORN  IS  FINE  "  4 

THE  WORLD  PLAY  5 

THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  J 

NOSTALGIA  8 

OLD  SONGS  O, 

THE  FOREFATHER  IO 

TO— MORROW  AND  TO— DAY  I  2 

THE  POLAR   QUEST  I  3 
WAR  NOTES  I 

I     FALSE  PEACE  AND  TRUE  1 4 

II     EXTRAS  1 4 

III  PRO  PATRIA  MORI  15 

IV  PARADES  1 6 
V     DECORATION  DAY  I J 

THE  SPHINX  I  8 

CITIES  OF  ELD  2O 

A  CHOPIN  PRELUDE  23 

THE  WAYS  RETURN  24 

THE  ELEMENTAL  JOYS  25 

THE  NORTH  LIGHT  26 

LIGHT  AND  SHADE  28 

CHILD-PLAY  29 

LIFE  30 

THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  3  1 

A  WESTERN  SCENE  32 

THE  MODERN  SAINT  33 

SEALED  ORDERS  34 

BLACK  OAKS  35 

HAYING  TIME  36 


CHANGELESS  Page  37 

"  IN  SPEAKING  OF  THE  LITTLE  ONES  WE  LOVE  "    38 

GOSPELS  39 

TRAVEL  4O 

THE  QUEST  OF  SUMMER  4! 

ON  THE   LINE  48 

CLEAR  HEAVENS  5O 

TWO   BARDS  51 

PLAINT  OF  THE  PINE  5  2 

TRAGEDIES  5  3 

FLASHES  54 

LAUREL  55 

MARY  MAGDALEN  5^ 

PICTURES  57 

THE  DREAM  AND  THE  WAKING  5^ 

LIFE  AND  SONG  59 

INTERPRETATION  6<D 

THE  NATIONAL  AIR  6 1 

A  PRELUDE  62 

IN  THE   GRASS  63 

THE   POET  TO  THE  CLOUD  64 

A  STORM  65 

THE   LILY  66 

THE    MUSIC  STRAIN  6 7 

A  MADRIGAL  68 

GYPSIES  69 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  MOON  7° 


Lyrics  of  Brotherhood 


"      Of    THE 

UNIVERSITY 


BLACK    SHEEP 

FROM  their  folded  mates  they  wander  far, 
Their  ways  seem  harsh  and  wild; 
They  follow  the  beck  of  a  baleful  star, 
Their  paths  are  dream-beguiled. 

Yet  haply  they  sought  but  a  wider  range, 

Some  loftier  mountain-slope, 
And  little  recked  of  the  country  strange 

Beyond  the  gates  of  hope. 

And  haply  a  bell  with  a  luring  call 

Summoned  their  feet  to  tread 
Midst  the  cruel  rocks,  where  the  deep  pitfall 

And  the  lurking  snare,  are  spread. 

Maybe,  in  spite  of  their  tameless  days 

Of  outcast  liberty, 
They're  sick  at  heart  for  the  homely  ways 

Where  their  gathered  brothers  be. 

And  oft  at  night,  when  the  plains  fall  dark 

And  the  hills  loom  large  and  dim, 
For  the  Shepherd's  voice  they  mutely  hark, 

And  their  souls  go  out  to  him. 

Meanwhile,    "Black  sheep!   Black  sheep!"    we 
cry, 

Safe  in  the  inner  fold  ; 
And  maybe  they  hear,  and  wonder  why, 

And  marvel,  out  in  the  cold. 


"THE  MORN   IS    FINE" 

THE  morn  is  fine,  the  wind  smells  sweet ; 
The  nomad  man  that  lurks  in  me 
Arouses,  and  I  fain  would  meet 
The  fellowship  of  vagrancy 

Along  the  mountain  roads  of  day. 

Hail,  foot-farers  from  near  and  far  ; 
Ye  who  do  love  the  wandering  way 

Of  Beauty,  show  what  stuff  ye  are, 

And  face  the  westward-luring  path  : 

The  hours  are  yours  'twixt  dawn  and  night ; 

And  since  that  Youth's  sure  aftermath 
Is  Memory  —  use  the  day  aright, 

That  by  the  fire,  when  evening's  here, 
Your  cronies  gathered  close  around, 

The  old-time  deeds  may  twinkle  clear, 
And  peace  be  in  the  back-log's  sound. 


THE   WORLD    PLAY 

("AND  ALL  THE  MEN  AND  WOMEN  MERELY 

PLAYERS  ") 

THE  entrance-price  you  willy-nilly  pay, 
Sit  with  your  kind,  take  pleasure,  if  you  may, 
Or  puzzle  at  the  meaning  of  the  play. 

Comedy 

The  humors  of  the  time,  the  painted  show 
Of  character,  the  Attic  salt  of  wit ; 
Now,  laughter  lifts  it  high,  now,  tender  woe 
For  a  pale  moment  o'er  the  stage  must  flit, 
To  make  the  main  plot  merrier ;  maids  and  men 
Teach  life  is  sweet  and  love  may  come  again. 

Melodrama 
See  how  the  swashbucklers  swagger  ! 

Hark  to  the  villain's  dark  cry  ! 
Much  is  a-doing  and  many  are  ruing. 

Innocents,  destined  to  die, 
Haply,  with  thrust  of  a  dagger. 
Evil  frustrate  and  virtue  tried  and  true, 
Romance,  adventure,  sleight,  and  derring-do, 
The  earth's  wide  passions  served  up  hot  for  you  ! 

Farce 

See  the  buffoon's  fat  cheeks  ballooning  out ! 
Thwack  !  the   lath  sword   descends,  guffaws  are 

rife 

'Midst  gallery  gods,  with  many  a  boorish  shout 
Of  approbation.      Yet,  'tis  part  of  life, 

5 


The  And  honest  too,  —  the  grammarless,  crude  heart 

World        Of  one's  own  kinsmen,  and  this  stir-about 
Is  wholesome,  though  it  lack  the  soul  of  art. 

Tragedy 

Slow  evolution  to  a  fateful  close  ; 
Deepest  of  dramas  knocking  at  our  soul  ; 
Glints  of  the  gay,  but  gloom   that  spreads   and 

grows 

Towards  some  sardonic  end,  the  gruesome  goal 
Of  all  the  light,  the  motion,  and  the  glee 

Pranked  out  high-heartedly. 
Behind  man's  quest  and  woman's  sacrifice, 
Bravery  and  risk  and  lure  of  ardent  eyes, 

Quieting  the  stir, 

Mingling  mould-odors  with  love's  sweetest  myrrh, 
Forever  looms  and  glooms  the  sepulchre  ! 

Epilogue 

Great  Watcher  of  the  whole,  the  motley  shift 
Of  play  and  counterplay,  sole  Critic,  who 
Must  understand,  because  Creator  too  ; 
Prompter  and  playwright  both  :   the  curtains  lift 
And  fall,  while  joy  and  sorrow  interweave  ; 
We  know  full  well  what  time  to  smile  or  grieve, 
No  more  ;   the  ultimate  meaning's  shut  from  view. 
The  world-play  act  by  act  moves  on,  and  we 
Are    shaken   by    its    moods,  —  mirth,    anguish, 
mystery. 


THE   HUMAN   TOUCH 

HIGH  thoughts  and  noble  in  all  lands 
Help  me;  my  soul  is  fed  by  such. 
But  ah,  the  touch  of  lips  and  hands,  — 

The  human  touch  ! 

Warm,  vital,  close,  life's  symbols  dear,  — 
These  need  I  most,  and  now,  and  here. 


NOSTALGIA 

ALL  through  their  lives  men  build  or  dream 
them  homes, 
Longing  for   peace  and    quiet    and  household 

love  ; 

All  through    their  lives  —  though  offering  heca 
tombs 
To  worldly  pleasures  and  the  shows  thereof. 

And  at  the  last,  life-sick,  with  still  the  same 
Unconquerable  desire  within  their  breast, 

They  yearn  for  heaven  and  murmur  its  dear  name, 
Deeming  it,  more  than  mortal  homes  are,  blest. 


OLD    SONGS 

THERE  is  many  a  simple  song  one  hears, 
To  an  outworn  tune,  that  starts  the  tears  ; 
Not  for  itself —  for  the  buried  years. 

Perchance  'twas  heard  in  the  days  of  youth, 
When  breath  was  buoyant  and  words  were  truth 
When  joys  were  peddled  at  Life's  gay  booth. 

Or  maybe  it  sounded  along  a  lane 

Where  She  walked  with  you  —  and  now  again 

You  catch  Love's  cadence,  Love's  old  sweet  pain, 

Or  else  it  stole  through  a  room  where  lay 
A  dear  one  dying,  and  seemed  to  say  : 
•«  Love  and  death,  they  shall  pass  away." 

It  rises  out  of  the  Long  Ago, 

And  that  is  the  reason  it  shakes  you  so 

With  pain  and  passion  and  buried  woe. 

There  is  many  a  simple  song  that  brings 
From  deeps  of  living,  on  viewless  wings, 
The  tender  magic  of  bygone  things. 


THE   FOREFATHER 

•  ERE  at  the  country  inn, 
I  lie  in  my  quiet  bed, 
And  the  ardent  onrush  of  armies 
Throbs  and  throbs  in  my  head. 


H 


Why,  in  this  calm,  sweet  place, 
Where  only  silence  is  heard, 

Am  I  'ware  of  the  crash  of  conflict  — 
Is  my  blood  to  battle  stirred  ? 

Without,  the  night  is  blessed 

With  the  smell  of  pines,  with  stars  ; 
Within,  is  the  mood  of  slumber, 

The  healing  of  daytime  scars. 

'Tis  strange  —  yet  I  am  thrall 

To  epic  agonies : 
The  tumult  of  myriads  dying 

Is  borne  to  me  on  the  breeze. 

Mayhap  in  the  long  ago 

My  forefather  grim  and  stark 

Stood  in  some  hell  of  carnage, 
Faced  forward,  fell  in  the  dark  ; 

And  I,  who  have  always  known 
Peace,  with  her  dove-like  ways, 

Am  gripped  by  his  martial  spirit 
Here  in  the  after  days. 


10 


I  cannot  rightly  tell :  The 

I  lie,  from  all  stress  apart,  Forefather 

And  the  ardent  onrush  of  armies 
Surges  hot  through  my  heart. 


TO-MORROW   AND   TO-DAY 

>"TpvO-MORROW  hath  a  rare,  alluring  sound  ; 

X    To-day  is  very  prose  ;  and  yet  the  twain 
Are  but  one  vision  seen  through  altered  eyes. 
Our  dreams  inhabit  one  ;  our  stress  and  pain 
Surge  through  the  other.      Heaven  is  but  to-day 
Made  lovely  with  to-morrow's  face,  for  aye. 


12 


THE   POLAR   QUEST 

UNCONQUERABLY,  men  venture  on  the 
quest 

And  seek  an  ocean  amplitude  unsailed, 
Cold,  virgin,  awful.      Scorning  ease  and  rest, 
And  heedless  of  the  heroes  who  have  failed, 
They  face  the  ice  floes  with  a  dauntless  zest. 

The  polar  quest  !     Life's  offer  to  the  strong  ! 

To  pass  beyond  the  pale,  to  do  and  dare, 
Leaving  a  name  that  stirs  us  like  a  song, 

And  making  captive  some  strange  Otherwhere, 
Though  grim  the  conquest,  and  the  labor  long. 

Forever  courage  kindles,  faith  moves  forth 
To  find  the  mystic  flood  way  of  the  North. 


WAR    NOTES 

I     FALSE   PEACE  AND  TRUE 

THERE  is  a  peace  wherein  man's  mood  is 
tame  — 

Like  clouds  upon  a  windless  summer  day 
The  hours  float  by  ;  the  people  take  no  shame 
In  alien  mocks ;  like  children  are  they  gay. 
Such  peace  is  craven-bought,  the  cost  is  great  ; 
Not  so  is  nourished  a  puissant  state. 

There  is  a  peace  amidst  the  shock  of  arms 
That  satisfies  the  soul,  though  all  the  air 
Hurtles  with  horror  and  is  rude  with  harms  ; 

Life's    gray    gleams    into    golden    deeds,    and 
^  C/     where, 
3£g    while    swords    slept,    unrighteousness    was 

done, 
Wrong  takes  her  death-blow,  and    from  sun  to 

sun 
That  clarion  cry  My  Country  !  makes  men  one. 

II     "  EXTRAS" 

THE  crocuses  in  the  Square 
Lend  a  winsome  touch  to  the  May  ; 
The  clouds  are  vanished  away, 
The  weather  is  bland  and  fair  ; 
Now  peace  seems  everywhere. 
Hark  to  the  raucous,  sullen  cries  : 
"  Extra  !      Extra  !  "  —  tersely  flies 
The  news,  and  a  great  hope  mounts,  or  dies. 


About  the  bulletin-boards  War  Notes 

Dark  knots  of  people  surge  ; 

Strained  faces  show,  then  merge 
In  the  inconspicuous  hordes 
That  yet  are  the  Nation's  lords. 

"  Extra  !     Extra  !     Big  fight  at  sea  !  " 

Was  the  luck  with  us  ?     Is  it  victory  ? 

Dear  God,  they  died  for  you  and  me  ! 

Meanwhile  the  crocuses  down  the  street 

With  heaven's  own  patience  are  calm  and  sweet 


A 


III     PRO  PATRIA  MORI 
S  a  gold  and  scarlet  sunset 


Glories  a  sombre  day, 
That  else  were  all  unmemoried, 
Dying  in  dusk  away  : 

Great  acts  man's  day  emblazon, 
God's  lilies  out  of  life's  mud  ; 

The  splendid  flower  of  heroes 
Out  of  a  soil  of  blood. 

The  date  of  the  deed  ?     Who  recks  it  ? 

Such  moments  are  timeless  things. 
Of  old,  Leonidas  thrills  us, 

He  travels  on  Fame's  wide  wings  ; 

Or,  blithe  through  the  Russian  bullets, 

Rushes  the  Light  Brigade 
To  death  —  and  the  whole  world  echoes 

The  sound  of  the  charge  they  made. 

15 


War  Notes         And  now,  —  with  the  ancient  valor,  — . 

In  the  clutch  of  a  tropic  sun, 
Our  own  Rough  Riders  conquer, 
Though  the  foe  be  four  to  one. 

The  date  of  the  deed  ?     'Tis  nothing  ! 
Count  it  by  tears  or  cheers. 

For  the  men  who  die  for  Country- 
Have  naught  to  do  with  the  years  ! 

IV     PARADES 

Civic  Display 

THE  uniforms  gleam  bright,  and  bands  galore 
Play  up  the  feet  that  step  in  time  full  gay  ; 
This  soldiering  looks  handsome  ;  hark,  the  roar 
That  rends  the  very  skies  of  Spring  to-day 
From  mobile  multitudes  who  line  the  way. 
Behold  the  grace  and  gallantry  of  war  ! 

The  Return  of  the  Veterans 
Beneath  grey  gloom  they  tramp  along  :  their  tread 
Lacks  rhythm;  faded,    soiled,    and   torn  their 

dress  ; 

They  wot  of  storm  and  peril,  wounds  that  bled, 
And  pains  beyond  imagination's  guess. 
The  lookers-on,  struck  mute  by  tenderness, 
Hardly  huzza  :  it  is  as  if  the  dead 

Walked  with  the  quick,      Beneath  a  brooding 

sky 

The  bronzed  and  battered  veterans  limp  by. 
16 


V     DECORATION  DAY  War  Notes 

THE  uses  of  adversity  are  sweet  : 
Red  war,  the  lust  of  conquest  is  forgot ; 
Beneath  bland  skies  a  nation  stays  her  feet, 

To  laud  the  hero,  grace  his  sleeping-spot ; 
For  every  drop  of  blood  old  swords  have  let, 
The  rose,  the  lily,  and  the  violet. 


THE   SPHINX 

WHAT  is  her  silence  saying, 
As  she  peers  from  her  stony  eyes, 
Creature  of  massive  sternness, 
Woman  of  monstrous  size  ? 

Ever  the  ages  ask  it 

Of  the  Deity  of  the  Sands, 
And  the  Spirit  of  Egypt  answers, 

The  ancient  one  of  the  lands  : 

"  Drought  is  my  old-time  menace, 
Rain  brings  my  happy  while, 

I  blossom  forth  like  a  garden 
With  the  flooding  of  the  Nile. 

"It  means  good  grain  for  my  people, 
Yea,  life  for  my  maids  and  men  ; 

My  kings  in  their  great  hewn  sepulchres, 
E'en  they  grow  joyful  then. 

«'  In  the  Sign  of  the  Lion  stately, 
In  the  Sign  of  the  Virgin  too, 

Do  the  waters  come  upwelling, 
And  the  fields  turn  fair  to  view. 

«'  So  of  old  my  servants  builded 
The  Sphinx;  she  rose  amain, 

A  shape  half  beast,  half  human, 
Above  the  burning  plain ; 


18 


"  For  a  sure,  eternal  token  The  Sphinx 

Of  reverence  and  praise, 
A  sacrifice  to  Father  Nile 

Done  in  the  elder  days. 

"And  if,  in  Time's  later  lapses, 

Innumerous  aliens  come 
To  guess  at  her  mystic  semblance, 

And  her  front  seems  riddlesome, 

"  My  race  will  comprehend  her, 

Their  goddess,  and  laud  her  high 
In  her  worship  of  the  waters 

Beneath  a  rainless  sky." 


CITIES   OF   ELD 

IN  the  Orient  uplands  afar, 
Beyond  the  roof  of  the  world, 
Strange  buried  cities  are, 

Where  over  the  winds  have  whirled 
And  the  Sky's  bleak  stormings  swirled 

For  century-sweeps  of  time. 
They  lie  deep  hid  in  the  slime, 

Or  frore  in  their  ancient  shroud, 
Careless  of  clear  or  cloud,  — 

But  dimly  imagined  of  man. 

There  once  the  opulent  East, 

With  sumptuous  caravan 
And  blithe  bazar  and  feast, 

Rejoiced  in  the  gifts  of  life  ; 
And  love  allured,  and  strife 

Was  wine  to  the  conquering  strong. 
There  women  with  ardent  eyes 

Drew  souls  to  sacrifice, 
And  the  day  of  work  seemed  long 

Till  it  brought  the  night  of  rest, 
When  the  instruments  of  the  dance 

Made  the  hours  a  happy  trance  ; 
And  jewels  were  thrown  to  the  best 

In  wit  or  story  or  song. 

The  silver  of  temple  bells 

Clove  through  the  sunset  gold, 

Or  else,  in  these  cities  old, 
Called  the  early  to  prayer, 
20 


When  the  swart,  unhurrying  throng  Cities  of  Eld 

Paced  to  their  altars  there  ; 
The  splendid  pillars  upsoared 

Circled  with  painted  scenes 
From  the  midst  of  the  forest  greens  ; 

And  marbled  fountains  plashed 
And  swords  processional  flashed, 

When  the  gaping  crowds  stood  fast, 
Beholding  some  mighty  lord 

Go  by,  with  his  pomp  of  state. 


Alas,  for  the  fall  of  fate  ! 

Look  !  there  is  nothing  there  ; 
Listen  !  no  sound  is  heard, 

Save  haply  a  vagrant  bird 
Or  a  wind-wail,  or  the  blare 

Of  thunder  ;  —  there  is  no  worth 
Of  merchandise,  no  mirth, 

No  lyric  word  of  love  ; 
Great,  savage  seams  of  earth 

Cover  the  marks  thereof. 
'Tis  only  but  now  and  then 

That  venturesome  modern  men 
Set  forth  on  a  hard-won  quest 

From  the  fresher  world  of  the  West, 
To  stand  in  that  silent  Vast 

And  remember  them  of  the  Past. 
'Tis  scarcely  more  than  a  dream, 

This  olden  worship  and  lust, 
This  fragrance  smothered  in  rust, 

This  beauty  of  transient  gleam  ; 

21 


Cities  of  Eld  A  symphony  sunk  to  a  moan, 

A  famine  after  a  feast  ; 

The  most  are  like  to  the  least  ; 
The  towers  are  razed,  are  prone, 

Yea,  all  of  the  folk  are  dust 
And  even  their  gods  unknown. 


22 


A   CHOPIN  PRELUDE 

A  CERTAIN  Chopin  prelude  once  I  heard. 
Strive  as  I  may  to  tell,  no  mortal  word 
Can  all-express  that  music.      Like  a  bird 
My  soul  went  up  the  blue  —  the  sweetest  pain, 
The  deepest  passion,  love  without  a  stain, 
A  high  and  holy  yearning  that  had  lain 
Buried,  did  come  in  a  white  company, 
In  tremulous  procession,  unto  me. 
For  an  immortal  moment  I  was  free 
O*    the    flesh,  and    leaped   in    spirit    and    was 

strong 
With  beauty,  shaken  by  magic  of  that  song. 


23 


THE   WAYS    RETURN 

MANY  the  ways  that  man  must  fare, 
The  roads  run  up  and  down  ; 
Some  thrid  the  country  hillsides  fair, 
Some  slink  within  the  town. 

Some  tortuous  are  and  hard  to  keep, 

But  others  slip  along 
Where  gardens  grow  and  fountains  leap 

And  speech  is  sweet,  and  song. 

Some  stretch  away  'midst  alien  sights, 
'Midst  strange,  far-lying  things  ; 

Others  be  near  the  native  lights, 
Nor  reck  of  journeyings. 

And  oh,  the  lingering,  long  quest, 
The  stumblings,  triumphs,  pain, 

The  while  man  fares  it  east  and  west 
Ere  he  return  again. 

But  one  boon,  one,  is  sure  to  be, 

How  far  soe'er  he  roam  : 
At  last  the  wandering  ways  agree, 

At  last  they  lead  him  home. 


24 


THE   ELEMENTAL  JOYS 

THE  elemental  joys  !     How  far  away 
And  dim  they  seem,  amidst  the  modern  fret ; 
The  tumultuous  probings,  and  the  eyes  tear-wet ; 
The  dark  forever  treading  on  the  day  ! 

The  elemental  joys  !     And  yet, 

Behold  them  close  at  hand  !     The  open  sky, 
And  all  her  sweep  and  thrill  ;  the  open  fire, 
Sleeking  the  body  to  its  heart's  desire  ; 

The  white  hands  of  the  chosen  home-mate  — why, 
They  all  are  goodly-nigh, 

Nor  is  death  any  greedier  than  of  old: 
So,  comrades,  let  us  foot  it  free  and  bold, 

Win  song  and  love  and  solace  like  a  boy's  — 
The  elemental  joys  ! 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


THE    NORTH   LIGHT 

THE    ARTIST    SPEAKS 

GIVE  me  the  room  with  a  clear  north  light 
To  paint  my  pictures  in  ; 
For  how  may  the  artist  paint  aright, 
And  meed  eternal  win, 

Unless  the  sun  come  temperately 
Through  the  roof  there,  overhead  ? 

Yea,  the  clear  north  light  is  the  light  for  me, 
As  the  dark  is  for  the  dead  ! 

If  I  let  the  fervid  south  fierce  shine 

On  the  creatures  of  my  brush, 
They  are  passion-warped,  for  the  heat,  like  wine, 

Will  set  my  blood  a-rush  ; 

Whereas,  the  artist,  like  God  on  high, 

Must  work  in  no  hot  whim  ; 
Aroused,  yet  calm,  with  a  steady  eye, 

While  the  centuries  gaze  at  him. 

There  is  love  that  lasts  and  a  patience  long 

In  his  forms  and  colors  sure  ; 
And  the  light  he  needs,  that  he  go  not  wrong, 

Is  a  high  light,  sane  and  pure. 

When  the  great  Thought  comes  and  the  gleam  of 

Power, 

There  is  warmth  divine  in  his  soul; 
But  the  labor  drugs  him  hour  by  hour 
And  far  away  is  the  goal ; 
26 


So,  for  mastery,  and  the  deed  well  done,  The 

He  must  cleanse  his  sight  of  all  NorA  Li^ 

The  quick  distempers  bred  in  the  sun 
That  take  weak  men  in  thrall. 

Must  nurse  the  spark  and  the  vision  swift 

In  the  chastened  light  of  the  sky  ; 
That  the  work,  though  slow,  have  a  heavenward 
lift, 

That  the  Beauty  may  not  die. 

In  the  place  where  the  pictures  have  their  birth 

Give  me  a  north  light  clear, 
With  more  of  God  and  less  of  earth 

In  the  quiet  atmosphere. 


27 


LIGHT   AND   SHADE 

THIS    one    knows  joy,    and    says:     "Ah, 
Life  is  sweet  !  " 
And  sorrow  this  one  :    "  Nay,  'tis  drowned  in 

tears." 

Meanwhile,  the  picture  is  made  all  complete 
By  God,  great  Chiaroscurist  of  the  years, 
Who  uses  light  and  shade,  and  in  whose  thought 
The  whole  is  clearly  limned  and  calmly  sought. 


28 


CHILD-PLAY 

AS  children  play  with  toys, 
So  men  with  hopes  and  fancies  : 
The  little  ones  with  romp  and  noise 

Build  card-frail,  gold  romances  ; 
Their  elders  through  the  perilous  years 
Build  dreams  —  and  wake  to  toil  and  tears, 

But,  old  or  young  the  same, 

The  glittering  baubles  please  them  ; 

And  be  it  fame  or  game, 

These  make-believes  release  them 

From  iron  circumstance,  from  drear 

Realities  that  choke  them  here. 


LIFE 

FRIENDLY  it  stands,  yon  Inn  upon  the  plain, 
And  keen  the  lamps  burn  through  the  cryptic 

night. 

How  jocund  sound  the  voices,  and  how  bright 
The  cheer  !  how  warm  the  housing  from  the  rain  ! 

The  traveller,  once  arrived,  forgets  the  long, 
Blank  journey  leading  thither  ;  all  the  dim, 
Mysterious  days  are  nothing  now  to  him, 

Seated  amidst  the  food  and  wine  and  song. 

But  when,  the  reckoning  paid,  his  comrades  fled, 
He  steps  upon  the  road  and  moves  away, 
His  soul  is  puzzled  sore  —  he  cannot  say 

What  Inn  it  was,  or  by  whom  tenanted. 


3° 


THE   ETERNAL    FEMININE 

TT^OREVER  shall  she  beckon.    Men  may  prate 
J7  Of  custom,  fashion,  change,  —  still  doth  she 

call 

To  high  endeavor  ;  dreams  begotten  thence 
Turn  with  the  day  to  deeds  chivalric  ;  vows 
Are  pledged  eternally  before  this  shrine 
Whose  taper-lights  are  stars,  whose  choristers 
Are  souls  bowed  down  with  Beauty.      Years  on 

years 

But  dim  the  garments  of  the  worshippers, 
The  light,  the  lure,  are  constant.      All  too  brief 
Is  Time  wherein  to  follow  from  afar 
The  Way  of  Wonder  leading  down  to  Love. 
Look,  at  the  alley-end  she  sways  and  smiles, 
Fresh  as  a  morn-birth,  fair  as  paradise, — 
Yet  ancient  as  the  moaning  of  the  sea  1 


A   WESTERN   SCENE 

THE  land  puts  on  a  haggard  look  ; 
For  branchless  boles  of  trees  uprise 
In  straggling  groups,  in  tragic  wise, 
Black,  weather-beaten,  God-forsook. 

Upon  the  plain,  in  high  relief 

Against  wide  heaven,  you  may  see 
Them  flaunt  spectacular  misery, 

Stamping  a  summer  scene  with  grief. 

Yet  somewhile  in  the  long  ago 
Blossomed  and  bloomed  an  Eden-show 
Of  beauty  here  —  where  now  is  this 
Bleak  picture  of  a  wilderness  ? 


THE    MODERN   SAINT 

NO  monkish  garb  he  wears,  no  beads  he  tells, 
Nor  is  immured  in  walls  remote  from  strife. 
But  from  his  heart  deep  mercy  ever  wells  ; 
He  looks  humanely  forth  on  human  life. 

In  place  of  missals  or  of  altar  dreams, 

He  cons  the  passioned  book  of  deeds  and  days  ; 

Striving  to  cast  the  comforting  sweet  beams 
Of  charity  on  dark  and  noisome  ways. 

Not  hedged  about  by  sacerdotal  rule, 

He  walks  a  fellow  of  the  scarred  and  weak. 

Liberal  and  wise  his  gifts  ;  he  goes  to  school 
To  Justice  ;  and  he  turns  the  other  cheek. 

He  looks  not  holy  ;  simple  is  his  belief ; 

His  creed  for  mystic  visions  do  not  scan  ; 
His  face  shows  lines  cut  there  by  others*  grief, 

And  in  his  eyes  is  love  of  brother-man. 

Not  self  nor  self-salvation  is  his  care  ; 

He  yearns  to  make  the  world  a  sunnier  clime 
To  live  in  ;  and  his  mission  everywhere 

Is  strangely  like  to  Christ's  in  olden  time. 

No  mediaeval  mystery,  no  crowned, 

Dim  figure,  halo-ringed,  uncanny  bright. 

A  modern  saint  :  a  man  who  treads  earth's  ground, 
And  ministers  to  men  with  all  his  might. 


33 


SEALED    ORDERS 

WE  bear  sealed  orders  o'er  Life's  weltered  sea, 
Our  haven  dim  and  far  ; 
We  can  but  man  the  helm  right  cheerily, 
Steer  by  the  brightest  star, 

And  hope  that  when  at  last  the  Great  Command 

Is  read,  we  then  may  hear 
Our  anchor  song,  and  see  the  longed-for  land 

Lie,  known  and  very  near. 


BLACK  OAKS 

THE    leaves    of  the   black    oak   linger   the 
winter  through 

In  the  woods  of  the  wide   Northwest ;    leech- 
like  they  cling 
To  the  branch,   and  they    nowise  yield    to 

blight  and  snow, 

Presences  dun  and  mystic  ;  oft  is  the  view 
Framed  in  their  subtle  richness  ;  oft  they  ring 

Horizons  else  remote  as  the  Long  Ago. 
The    leaves  of  the  black   oak   bide,   and   for  me 

their  grace 
Has  a  conjuring   touch   of  home,  of  a  dear  lost 

place  ; 
I  forget  the  plains,  I  behold  New  England's  face. 


HAYING-TIME 

IN  the  meadows  the  men  are  haying 
I  can  hear  the  creak  of  the  cart, 
I  can  see  the  play  of  the  muscles, 
And  the  honest  sweat  outstart. 

But  the  blue  sky,  calm  and  ample, 
With  tranquil  speech  doth  say  : 

"  Why  sweat,  O  ye  tiny  toilers, 
When  your  work  is  for  a  day  ?  " 


CHANGELESS 

LOVE  hath  full  many  semblances  :   Now  this 
Fair  face   doth  lure,    now  yonder   smile  re 
makes 

A  sorry  world  ;  now  at  a  mad-cap  kiss 
We  build  unstable  dreams  :   the  vision  takes 
A  myriad  forms,  and  hath  the  charm  thereof.  — 
But  ever,  in  the  background,  soareth  Love, 
One  deathless  creature  poised  beyond,  above  ! 


"  IN  SPEAKING  OF  THE  LITTLE  ONES 
WE   LOVE" 

IN  speaking  of  the  little  ones  we  love 
Our  souls  grow  warm  and  tender  :  Young-of- 

Years 

So  helpless  seems,  yet  valiant,  trusting  all 
It  sees,  and  putting  faith  in  the  Unseen  ; 
Deeming  the  whole  cold-hearted  outer  world 
A  mother-embrace,  a  bosom  for  its  sleep. 

We  men  are  little  ones  before  high  God  : 
In  pain,  in  sickness,  and  in  moods  that  yearn 
For  consolation,  or  when  we  intrust 
Our  pigmy  bodies  to  their  night-still  beds, 
The  spirit  feels  its  youth  and  feebleness 
And  turns  like  any  weak,  perplexed  child 
Toward  home,  toward    father,  mother,  and  the 

things 

Indwelling,  known  of  old,  and  longed  for  still, 
'Midst  infinite  barrenness  and  all  unrest. 

We  men  are  little  ones  before  high  God  : 
The  boasts  of  brain,  the  passions  of  the  mind 
Are  nothing,  set  beside  the  one  brief  hour 
Of  faith  re-born,  calm  dreams,  and  utter  love. 


GOSPELS 

TWO  Gospels  there  are  of  the  years 
That  haunt  men,  and  follow  them  after 
And  one  is  the  Gospel  of  tears, 
The  other  the  Gospel  of  laughter. 

The  Gospel  of  laughter  is  good, 

For  it  sweetens  the  gall  of  our  sorrow  ; 

Therethrough  is  slow  anguish  withstood 
And  the  spirit  trussed  up  for  the  morrow. 

The  Gospel  of  tears  is  divine, 

For  it  makes  us  draw  closer  together, 

And  shows  us  the  beacon  and  sign 
Of  souls,  in  Life's  stormiest  weather. 

Two  Gospels  there  are  of  the  years, 

Rich-crowning  our  grief  and  our  pleasure  : 

The  Gospel  of  laughter,  of  tears, 

With  meanings  that  man  may  not  measure. 


39 


TRAVEL 

SIT  in  mine  house  at  ease, 

Moving  nor  foot  nor  hand  ; 

Yet  sail  through  unchartered  seas 

And  wander  from  land  to  land, 


I 


And  though  I  may  travel  far, 
It  is  always  well  with  me  ; 

I  can  come  from  an  outmost  star 
At  a  touch,  at  a  call  from  thee. 


r 


THE   QUEST   OF  SUMMER 
I 

•  HAD  been  waiting  long 
For  its  coming, 
For  the  time  of  bird-song 

And  the  humming 

Of  the  bees  and  the  smell  of  May  grass, 
Till  it  seemed  that  the  winter  sleep  never  would  pass 
To  the  buoyant  bright  waking  of  summer, 

Sweet  comer, 
With  the  mood  of  a  love-plighted  lass. 

But  it  came, 

In  a  garment  of  sensitive  flame 
In  the  west,  and  a  royal  blue  sky  overhead, 
With  exuberant  breath  and  the  bloom  of  all  things 
Having  wonders  and  wings, 
Being  risen  elate  from  the  dead. 
Yea,  it  came  with  a  flush 
Of  pied  flowers,  and  a  turbulent  rush 
Of  spring-loosened  waters,  and  an  odorous  hush 
At  nightfall,  —  and  then  I  was  glad 
With  the  gladness  of  one  who  for  militant  months 
has  been  sad. 

Then  for  days, 
In  the  warm  noon  haze, 
In  the  freshness  of  morning  or  spirit- still  mood  of 

the  night, 
My  delight 

Was  wordless  and  deep,   was  a  benison  straight 
from  my  God  ; 

4' 


The  Quest          For  the  sky  and  the  sod 
of  Summer  \yere  marvels,  and  living  a  joy,  and  dun  winter  a 

myth  ; 

But  therewith 
Crept  a  change,  —  no  swift  spasm  of  nature,  no 

death 
Of  brightness  and  beauty,  but  soberer  drawing  of 

breath 

That  follows  on  rapture  ;  no  pall 
Of  sorrow,   but  splendid  and  bounteous  Fall, 
Whose  veil  is  soft  silver,  who  heralds  a  festival 
Of  harvests  and  hopes  and  desires, 

Around  whose  fires 
Dance  satyrs  and  nymphs  and  young  Bacchus  the 

jocund,  whose  shapes 
Are  purply  with  time -mists  and  grapes. 

Then  I  knew 

How  September's  most  opulent  blue 
Must  merge  in  October's  calm  gold, 

As  ever  of  old  ; 
A  month  thorough-thrilled  with  the  prescience  of 

ultimate  pain  ; 
That  again 

Would  follow  November  wind-writhen  and  sere, 
Then  winter,  a  wild-mannered  fere. 
So  I  said  :    "I  will  hasten  from  here, 
I  will  win  to  what  climes  are  more  winsome  and 

warm, 

Where  skyey  beatitudes  are,  and  no  storm 
May  startle  them  out  of  their  passionless  norm 
Of  peace  ; 

42 


Where  release  The  Quest 

From  weathers  shall  last  through  each  day  of  the    of  Summer 

seven, 

So  long  as  below  is  the  earth  and  above  is  the 
heaven." 

So  when  the  season  came  of  hooded  skies, 

Of  wailing  voices  and  of  cheerless  ways, 
I  ventured  forth  upon  this  sole  emprise, 

Nor  saw  my  mother-land  for  many  days. 

II 

Soft  slumbrous  breathings  of  the  enchanted  noon 
That  drift  and  sift  across  the  lapsed  lagoon  ; 
The  hush  of  heat,  and  for  a  constant  tune 
The  languid  silver  swash  of  Southern  seas. 

The  cocoa  palms  seem  tranced  upon  the  air 
With  cassia  odorous  ;  all  bright  and  bare 
Of  sails  the  sea  ;  the  coral  reefs  gleam  fair 
Along  the  beach,  and  boom  the  big  swart  bees. 

Here  in  this  island-haunt  a  soul  may  rest 
Like  to  a  child  upon  the  mother-breast, 
Dreaming  no  dream  that  is  not  smooth  and  blest, 
Nor  waking  save  to  solaces  as  dear. 

Night  follows  noon,  and  then  each  star  above 
Looms  like  a  moon  and  pulses  life  and  love  ; 
The  waters  moan  as  moans  a  rapt  white  dove, 
And  whilom  water-fowls  make  clamor  clear. 


43 


The  Quest      How  long  have  I  been  here  ?    Ah,  who  can  tell  ? 
of  Summer  ^he  hours  are  but  estrays  of  Time  —  no  bell 
Tinkles  to  warn  the  islanders  ;  but  well 
They  know  the  day-dawn  :  It  was  yesteryear, 

Perchance,  or  yesterday  ;  it  matters  not, 
There  are  no  hounding  cares  to  make  a  blot 
Upon  Life's  face,  to  rouse  the  tranced  spot 
Into  unease  and  bodings  fraught  with  fear. 

How  can  I  e'er  be  sad,  so  bathed  in  bliss  ? 
Here  is  unceasing  summer  ;  here,  I  wis, 
One  need  but  lie  and  watch  the  sky-line  kiss 
The  waves,  and  pluck  the  poppy  in  the  sand. 

Unceasing  summer,   aye  ;      .      .      and   far  from 

home  ! 

How  many  countless  leagues  across  the  foam 
The  sail-sick  mariner  must  rock  and  roam 
Before  he  sight  the  long-witholden  land  ! 

And  there  are  icy  wind  and  barren  snow, 
And  here  all  tropic  splendors  bloom  and  blow  ; 
Then  who  would  leave  it,  nor  be  loth  to  go 
From  pleasance  such  to  breast  a  wintry  clime  ? 

Lo,  for  the  asking,  lemons,  mangoes,  milk, 
And  berries,  shedding  fragrance  ;  soft  as  silk 
The  bed  whereon  I  lie,  the  breezes  ilk 
That  fan  my  face,  the  bath  at  morning-time. 


44 


r      of    TH*        ^      1 

UNIVERSITY   I 
^^ 


Below,  a  myriad  colors  on  the  earth,  The  Quest 

Around,  a  shifting  miracle,  a  birth  of  Summer 
Of  beauty  new,  and  ever  wonder-worth  ; 
Above,  the  great  deep  sapphire  of  the  sky. 

It  were  a  marvel  did  a  man  regret 

Within  this  June  eternal :  ah,  but  yet 

I  feel  mine  eyes  north-gazing,  sometimes  wet. 

Mayhap  it  is  mere  surfeit  of  delight, 

Or  is  it  love  and  longing  for  the  lost 
Keen  raptures  of  a  country  tempest-tossed, 
By  all  the  savageries  of  nature  crossed 
And  crowned  with  cold,  as  kings  with   circlets 
bright  ? 

Nay,  ask  me  not  ;  but  I  must  now  away, 
Seeking  my  native  land,  as  wanderers  may, 
Homesick,  and  taught  by  every  flawless  day 
How  better  than  all  else  the  old-time  things. 

I  must  away  —  so  fetch  my  lithe  canoe 

To  dare  the  foam  and  tread  the  sea-halls  blue. 

A  swift  farewell,  O  Isle  of  Dreams,  to  you, 

0  Southern    Cross,    see    where    in    heaven   it 
swings. 

Ill 

1  came  with  the  winds  and  the  weather 

To  the  well-beloved  place, 
And  I  recked  not  a  rose-worth  whether 
Sere  winter  had  showed  his  face 

45 


The  Quest  On  the  sea  and  the  land, 

of  Summer  In  the  icy  air^ 

Or  whether  the  year  was  bland  and  fair  : 
All  weather  was  seemly  weather, 

Because  it  was  homelike  there. 
In  those  sunshine  isles  of  the  Southern  sea 
The  old  keen  joyance  had  slipt  from  me, 

I  sated  soon  of  the  ceaseless  boon 

Of  drowsy  days  by  the  still  lagoon. 

But  now  my  thoughts  were  interblent  with  birds 
And  blandishments  of  morning  ;  all  the  land 

Was  lovely  past  the  putting  it  in  words, 

Yet  changeful  as  a  maid  who  gives  her  hand, 

But  will  not  do  it  wantonly,  for  fear 

It  make  her  seem  less  dear. 

So  the  secret  was  won  forever, 

And  I  hugged  it  tight  to  my  breast : 

How  the  life  all-summered,  never 
Knows  passion  nor  joy's  behest. 

How  the  spring  change  wakes  to  rapture 

The  spirit  so  long  asleep, 
And  the  May  month  seems  to  capture 

A  bliss  that  is  twofold  deep 

When  it  follows  hard  on  a  sullen  time 
Of  cheerless  fields  and  of  limping  rhyme, 
With  a  lyric  thrill  and  a  burst  sublime. 


So  my  quest  of  summer  was  over  ;  The  Quest 

The  time  of  corn  and  of  clover,  °SSum) 

Of  robin  and  rose  and  radiant  hours, 
Came  to  my  door  as  a  welcome  guest, 

Welcome  with  birds  and  flowers, 
And  I  feasted  fine  in  the  warmth  and  scent  ; 
But  when  'twas  o'er  I  was  well  content, 
Facing  the  sober  fall  with  zest  ; 
Nor  winter  frore 
Could  evermore 

Be  aught  but  a  rough-wayed  friend  to  me,  — 
A  friend  who  had  preached  high-heartedly 
Courage,  faith  in  the  good-to-be. 

For  the  sweetest  of  all  seasons 
Is  that  which  follows  pain, 
And  the  best  of  winter's  reasons 
Is  the  summer  here  again. 


47 


ON   THE   LINE 

A  LITTLE     picture     hung  —  its     peaceful 
stretch 

Of  sunny  field  ;  its  glimpse  of  shady  lane 
Wherein  the  cattle,  stragglers  ponderous, 
Made  leisurely  advance  ;  its  distant  hills 
That  left  the  background  dreamy,  and  above, 
Beyond,    the    summer    sky    white-flecked    with 

cloud,  — 

Dulled  down  and  killed  because  on  either  side 
Were  canvases  of  other  themes  and  tones. 
The  eye,  confused  by  these  so  variant  thoughts, 
Must  wander  helplessly,  nor  stay  to  judge 
The  patient  artist's  meaning ;  so  the  small 
And  modest  picture  missed  its  due  effect. 

'Twas  bought  by  one  who  had  the  seeing  soul. 
One  day  he  showed  it  me  within  a  room 
Where  all  was  harmonized  to  suit  its  mood. 
I  found  it  hard  to  think  my  memory 
Had  played  me  false,  so  foully  disesteemed 
The  treasure  that  mine  eyes  must  now  behold  : 
The  wealth  of  coloring,  the  breadth  and  range, 
The  worship  breathing  through  and  under  all. 

'Tis  thus  with  men.      Alive,  they  jostle  past, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  some  fellow-man 
Who  draws  our  gaze  away.      We  hardly  know 
If  they  be  gods  or  ghosts,  so  carelessly 
We  sense  their  presence.     Death  lifts  up  his  hand 
And  beckons  once ;  they  follow,  leave  the  crowd. 


We    straight    collect    their  words    and    scattered  On  the  Lint 

deeds, 

Abstract  our  thoughts  from  off  the  busy  world, 
And  study  all  that  went  to  make  them  rare, 
Until  they  stand  disburdened  and  declared. 
Then,  next,  we  garnish  up  a  pedestal, 
Unused  before,  and  lift  their  image  high 
For  wise  posterity  in  after-time 
To  humbly  pause  and  view  them,  stern  in  stone. 


CLEAR   HEAVENS 

THE  sky  is  wind-swept,  and  the  golden  air, 
Rain-washed,   is  crystal-clear  and    keen  to 
breathe. 

The  hills  since  yesterday  have  shaken  off 
Their  dim  aloofness,  and  uprise  so  near, 
Clean  cut  and  purple  'gainst  the  brow  of  morn, 
They  startle  you.      There  is  a  brilliancy 
Set  like  a  seal  on  earth  and  heaven  ;  it  seems 
As  if  all  Nature  made  her  ready  for 
Some  festival,  some  august  guest  to  come 
And  tarry  for  a  day.      Some  joy -to-be 
Haunts  in  the  field,  inhabits  all  the  woods, 
And    thrids   the    blue ;    nor  e'en   night's  darker 

mood 

Dispels  the  strong  illusion :   since  the  stars 
Shine  brighter  than  their  wont,  and  breezes  blow 
The  message,  "  Patience  ;  it  will  all  come  true." 


TWO  BARDS 

A  BARD  who  wrote  in  staves 
Once  made  a  heathen  hymn. 
It  had  this  stern  refrain, 
That  moved  as  though  in  pain  ; 
"  The  under-glimpse  of  graves 
Makes  the  sea  grim." 

A  south-land  singer  sung 

With  happy  heart  and  free. 
The  living,  not  the  dead, 
He  dealt  with,  and  he  said  : 
"  The  world  is  glad  and  young, 
And  good  to  me." 

And  ever  since,  mankind 
Is  shuttled  back  and  forth 
Between  these  singers  twain 
Of  glad  and  sad  refrain  :  — 
The  southland  warm  and  kind, 
The  bitter  north. 


PLAINT   OF   THE   PINE 

I  FOUND  a  pine  that  shot  its  solemn  bole 
Twice  fifty  feet  against  the  summer  sky 
From  out  a  sunless  gorge  ;  and  sad  of  soul 
It  seemed,  until  I  sought  to  question  why  ; 
Whereat  the  tree  moaned  darkly  —  made  this 
strange  reply  : 

t(  I  am  troubled  betimes,  I  am  sad  in  my  sleep, 
Foreboding  the  day  I  shall  stagger  and  leap 
And  tremble  through  tempests  o'er  seas  that  are 
deep. 

"  They  will  fashion  me  forth  for  a  ship  ;  they  will 

make 

My  stature  and  girth  but  a  mock  ;  they  will  break 
My   branches    and    rend    me    for   merchanting's 

sake. 

"  Eternal  unease  shall  be  portioned  to  me, 
A  creature  firm  rooted  and  fain  so  to  be,  — 
Eternal  unease  on  the  shifting,  loud  sea. 

"  For  each  to  his  nature ;  and  mine  is  to  grow 
Tall,  sombre,  and  steadfast,  and  gravely  a-row 
With  brothers  as  grave,  while  the  centuries  go. 

"  I  am  troubled  betimes,  I  am  sorely  oppressed, 
As   I  ponder  and   dream  on  my  mother-earth's 

breast, 
With  a  fear  of  the  ocean,  that  knoweth  not  rest." 


TRAGEDIES 

TWO  kinds  there  are  :  the  one  theatric,  bold, 
A  murder,  maybe,  horrible  to  see, 
Lives  lost  by  fire  or  flood,  and  bodies  cold 
That  speak  some  tale  of  awful  agony  ; 

The  other,  mumming  'neath  a  milder  name  : 
A  human  soul  that  as  the  days  go  by 

Sinks  deeper  down  into  some  pit  of  shame, 
Yet  knows  the  stars  shine  silvery  and  high. 


53 


FLASHES 

A  FLASH  of  the  lightning  keen! 
And  lo !  we  know  that,  miles  on  miles, 
The  dim,  lost  land  is  lying  green. 

It  brims  our  heart  with  joy,  the  whiles, 

To  see  that  through  the  thick  night-screen 

Full  many  a  meadow  smiles  and  smiles. 

A  flash  from  the  poet's  brain! 

The  meaning  of  the  many  years, 
That  mazeful  seemed,  grows  very  plain ; 

The  level  lands  of  gloom  and  tears 
Hint  holy  heights,  turn  bright  again  ; 

The  night  a  transient  thing  appears. 


LAUREL 

ALONG  the  road  in  the  month  of  June, 
With  all  the  roses  in  their  prime, 
The  laurel  blooms  and  hears  the  tune 
Of  all  the  birds,  for  'tis  their  time 
Of  fullest,  fairest  singing. 

And  no  man  meets  awake,  a-dream, 

A  daintier  pink  on  lady-cheek 
Than  paints  those  clustered  cups  that  seem 

Like  nuns  demure  and  over-meek, 
So  close  together  clinging. 

Some  flowers  are  for  city  walks, 

And  some  o'er  love's  light  lattice  climb  ; 

And  some  are  noisome  on  their  stalks, 
While  others  scent  the  summer  time 
In  quiet  garden  closes. 

But  most  of  all,  methinks,  I  love 

Along  some  road  of  solitude 
To  see  the  laurel,  flower  of 

A  simpler  yet  a  sweeter  mood 
Than  any  mood  of  roses ! 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

AT  dawn  she  sought  the  Saviour  slain, 
To  kiss  the  spot  where  he  had  lain 
And  weep  warm  tears,  like  Spring-time  rain ; 

When  lo !  there  stood,  unstained  of  death, 
A  man  that  spake  with  slow,  sweet  breath ; 
And  "  Master  !  "   Mary  answereth. 

From  out  the  far  and  fragrant  years, 
How  sweeter  than  the  songs  of  seers 
That  tender  offering  of  tears  ! 


I 


THE   QUEST   OF   SUMMER 

I 

•  HAD  been  waiting  long 
For  its  coming, 
For  the  time  of  bird-song 

And  the  humming 

Of  the  bees  and  the  smell  of  May  grass, 
Till  it  seemed  that  the  winter  sleep  never  would  pass 
To  the  buoyant  bright  waking  of  summer, 

Sweet  comer, 
With  the  mood  of  a  love-plighted  lass. 

But  it  came, 

In  a  garment  of  sensitive  flame 
In  the  west,  and  a  royal  blue  sky  overhead, 
With  exuberant  breath  and  the  bloom  of  all  things 
Having  wonders  and  wings, 
Being  risen  elate  from  the  dead. 
Yea,  it  came  with  a  flush 
Of  pied  flowers,  and  a  turbulent  rush 
Of  spring-loosened  waters,  and  an  odorous  hush 
At  nightfall,  —  and  then  I  was  glad 
With  the  gladness  of  one  who  for  militant  months 
has  been  sad. 

Then  for  days, 
In  the  warm  noon  haze, 
In  the  freshness  of  morning  or  spirit-still  mood  of 

the  night, 
My  delight 

Was  wordless  and  deep,   was  a  benison  straight 
from  my  God  ; 


The  Quest          For  the  sky  and  the  sod 
of  Summer  \yere  marvels,  and  living  a  joy,  and  dun  winter  a 

myth  ; 

But  therewith 
Crept  a  change,  —  no  swift  spasm  of  nature,  no 

death 
Of  brightness  and  beauty,  but  soberer  drawing  of 

breath 

That  follows  on  rapture  ;  no  pall 
Of  sorrow,  but  splendid  and  bounteous  Fall, 
Whose  veil  is  soft  silver,  who  heralds  a  festival 
Of  harvests  and  hopes  and  desires, 

Around  whose  fires 
Dance  satyrs  and  nymphs  and  young  Bacchus  the 

jocund,  whose  shapes 
Are  purply  with  time -mists  and  grapes. 

Then  I  knew 

How  September's  most  opulent  blue 
Must  merge  in  October's  calm  gold, 

As  ever  of  old  ; 
A  month  thorough-thrilled  with  the  prescience  of 

ultimate  pain  ; 
That  again 

Would  follow  November  wind-writhen  and  sere, 
Then  winter,  a  wild-mannered  fere. 
So  I  said  :    "I  will  hasten  from  here, 
I  will  win  to  what  climes  are  more  winsome  and 

warm, 

Where  skyey  beatitudes  are,  and  no  storm 
May  startle  them  out  of  their  passionless  norm 
Of  peace  ; 

42 


Where  release  The  Quest 

From  weathers  shall  last  through  each  day  of  the    of  Summer 

seven, 

So  long  as  below  is  the  earth  and  above  is  the 
heaven." 

So  when  the  season  came  of  hooded  skies, 

Of  wailing  voices  and  of  cheerless  ways, 
I  ventured  forth  upon  this  sole  emprise, 

Nor  saw  my  mother-land  for  many  days. 

II 

Soft  slumbrous  breathings  of  the  enchanted  noon 
That  drift  and  sift  across  the  lapsed  lagoon  ; 
The  hush  of  heat,  and  for  a  constant  tune 
The  languid  silver  swash  of  Southern  seas. 

The  cocoa  palms  seem  tranced  upon  the  air 
With  cassia  odorous  ;  all  bright  and  bare 
Of  sails  the  sea  ;  the  coral  reefs  gleam  fair 
Along  the  beach,  and  boom  the  big  swart  bees. 

Here  in  this  island-haunt  a  soul  may  rest 
Like  to  a  child  upon  the  mother-breast, 
Dreaming  no  dream  that  is  not  smooth  and  blest, 
Nor  waking  save  to  solaces  as  dear. 

Night  follows  noon,  and  then  each  star  above 
Looms  like  a  moon  and  pulses  life  and  love  ; 
The  waters  moan  as  moans  a  rapt  white  dove, 
And  whilom  water-fowls  make  clamor  clear. 


43 


The  Quest      How  long  have  I  been  here  ?     Ah,  who  can  tell  ? 
of  Summer  The  hours  are  but  estravs  of  Time  — no  bell 

Tinkles  to  warn  the  islanders  ;  but  well 
They  know  the  day-dawn  :  It  was  yesteryear, 

Perchance,  or  yesterday  ;  it  matters  not, 
There  are  no  hounding  cares  to  make  a  blot 
Upon  Life's  face,  to  rouse  the  tranced  spot 
Into  unease  and  bodings  fraught  with  fear. 

How  can  I  e'er  be  sad,  so  bathed  in  bliss  ? 
Here  is  unceasing  summer  ;  here,  I  wis, 
One  need  but  lie  and  watch  the  sky-line  kiss 
The  waves,  and  pluck  the  poppy  in  the  sand. 

Unceasing  summer,   aye  ;      .      .      and   far   from 

home  ! 

How  many  countless  leagues  across  the  foam 
The  sail-sick  mariner  must  rock  and  roam 
Before  he  sight  the  long-witholden  land  ! 

And  there  are  icy  wind  and  barren  snow, 
And  here  all  tropic  splendors  bloom  and  blow  ; 
Then  who  would  leave  it,  nor  be  loth  to  go 
From  pleasance  such  to  breast  a  wintry  clime  ? 

Lo,  for  the  asking,  lemons,  mangoes,  milk, 
And  berries,  shedding  fragrance  ;  soft  as  silk 
The  bed  whereon  I  lie,  the  breezes  ilk 
That  fan  my  face,  the  bath  at  morning-time. 


44 


Below,  a  myriad  colors  on  the  earth,  The  Quest 

Around,  a  shifting  miracle,  a  birth  of  Summer 

Of  beauty  new,  and  ever  wonder-worth  ; 
Above,  the  great  deep  sapphire  of  the  sky. 

It  were  a  marvel  did  a  man  regret 

Within  this  June  eternal :   ah,  but  yet 

I  feel  mine  eyes  north-gazing,  sometimes  wet. 

Mayhap  it  is  mere  surfeit  of  delight, 

Or  is  it  love  and  longing  for  the  lost 
Keen  raptures  of  a  country  tempest-tossed, 
By  all  the  savageries  of  nature  crossed 
And  crowned  with  cold,   as  kings   with   circlets 
bright  ? 

Nay,  ask  me  not  ;  but  I  must  now  away, 
Seeking  my  native  land,  as  wanderers  may, 
Homesick,  and  taught  by  every  flawless  day 
How  better  than  all  else  the  old-time  things. 

I  must  away  —  so  fetch  my  lithe  canoe 

To  dare  the  foam  and  tread  the  sea-halls  blue. 

A  swift  farewell,  O  Isle  of  Dreams,  to  you, 

0  Southern     Cross,    see    where    in    heaven   it 
swings. 

Ill 

1  came  with  the  winds  and  the  weather 

To  the  well-beloved  place, 
And  I  recked  not  a  rose-worth  whether 
Sere  winter  had  showed  his  face 

45 


The  Quest  On  the  sea  and  the  land, 

of  Summer  In  the  icy  a}r> 

Or  whether  the  year  was  bland  and  fair  : 
All  weather  was  seemly  weather, 

Because  it  was  homelike  there. 
In  those  sunshine  isles  of  the  Southern  sea 
The  old  keen  joyance  had  slipt  from  rne, 

I  sated  soon  of  the  ceaseless  boon 

Of  drowsy  days  by  the  still  lagoon. 

But  now  my  thoughts  were  interblent  with  birds 
And  blandishments  of  morning  ;  all  the  land 

Was  lovely  past  the  putting  it  in  words, 

Yet  changeful  as  a  maid  who  gives  her  hand, 

But  will  not  do  it  wantonly,  for  fear 

It  make  her  seem  less  dear. 

So  the  secret  was  won  forever, 

And  I  hugged  it  tight  to  my  breast : 

How  the  life  all-summered,  never 
Knows  passion  nor  joy's  behest. 

How  the  spring  change  wakes  to  rapture 

The  spirit  so  long  asleep, 
And  the  May  month  seems  to  capture 

A  bliss  that  is  twofold  deep 

When  it  follows  hard  on  a  sullen  time 
Of  cheerless  fields  and  of  limping  rhyme, 
With  a  lyric  thrill  and  a  burst  sublime. 


So  my  quest  of  summer  was  over  ;  The  Quest 

The  time  of  corn  and  of  clover,  of  Summer 

Of  robin  and  rose  and  radiant  hours, 
Came  to  my  door  as  a  welcome  guest, 

Welcome  with  birds  and  flowers, 
And  I  feasted  fine  in  the  warmth  and  scent  ; 
But  when  'twas  o'er  I  was  well  content, 
Facing  the  sober  fall  with  zest  ; 
Nor  winter  frore 
Could  evermore 

Be  aught  but  a  rough-wayed  friend  to  me,  — 
A  friend  who  had  preached  high-heartedly 
Courage,  faith  in  the  good-to-be. 

For  the  sweetest  of  all  seasons 
Is  that  which  follows  pain, 
And  the  best  of  winter's  reasons 
Is  the  summer  here  again. 


ON   THE   LINE 

A  LITTLE     picture     hung  —  its     peaceful 
stretch 

Of  sunny  field  ;  its  glimpse  of  shady  lane 
Wherein  the  cattle,  stragglers  ponderous, 
Made  leisurely  advance  ;  its  distant  hills 
That  left  the  background  dreamy,  and  above, 
Beyond,    the     summer    sky    white-flecked     with 

cloud,  — 

Dulled  down  and  killed  because  on  either  side 
Were  canvases  of  other  themes  and  tones. 
The  eye,  confused  by  these  so  variant  thoughts, 
Must  wander  helplessly,  nor  stay  to  judge 
The  patient  artist's  meaning ;  so  the  small 
And  modest  picture  missed  its  due  effect. 

'Twas  bought  by  one  who  had  the  seeing  soul. 
One  day  he  showed  it  me  within  a  room 
Where  all  was  harmonized  to  suit  its  mood. 
I  found  it  hard  to  think  my  memory 
Had  played  me  false,  so  foully  disesteemed 
The  treasure  that  mine  eyes  must  now  behold  : 
The  wealth  of  coloring,  the  breadth  and  range, 
The  worship  breathing  through  and  under  all. 

*Tis  thus  with  men.      Alive,  they  jostle  past, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  some  fellow-man 
Who  draws  our  gaze  away.     We  hardly  know 
If  they  be  gods  or  ghosts,  so  carelessly 
We  sense  their  presence.     Death  lifts  up  his  hand 
And  beckons  once ;  they  follow,  leave  the  crowd. 
48 


We    straight    collect    their  words    and    scattered  On  the  Line 

deeds, 

Abstract  our  thoughts  from  off  the  busy  world, 
And  study  all  that  went  to  make  them  rare, 
Until  they  stand  disburdened  and  declared. 
Then,  next,  we  garnish  up  a  pedestal, 
Unused  before,  and  lift  their  image  high 
For  wise  posterity  in  after-time 
To  humbly  pause  and  view  them,  stern  in  stone. 


49 


CLEAR   HEAVENS 

THE  sky  is  wind-swept,  and  the  golden  air, 
Rain-washed,   is  crystal-clear  and    keen  to 

breathe. 

The  hills  since  yesterday  have  shaken  off 
Their  dim  aloofness,  and  uprise  so  near, 
Clean  cut  and  purple  'gainst  the  brow  of  morn, 
They  startle  you.      There  is  a  brilliancy 
Set  like  a  seal  on  earth  and  heaven  ;  it  seems 
As  if  all  Nature  made  her  ready  for 
Some  festival,  some  august  guest  to  come 
And  tarry  for  a  day.      Some  joy -to-be 
Haunts  in  the  field,  inhabits  all  the  woods, 
And    thrids    the    blue ;    nor  e'en   night's  darker 

mood 

Dispels  the  strong  illusion :  since  the  stars 
Shine  brighter  than  their  wont,  and  breezes  blow 
The  message,  "  Patience  ;  it  will  all  come  true." 


TWO  BARDS 

A  BARD  who  wrote  in  staves 
Once  made  a  heathen  hymn. 
It  had  this  stern  refrain, 
That  moved  as  though  in  pain 
"  The  under-glimpse  of  graves 
Makes  the  sea  grim." 

A  south-land  singer  sung 

With  happy  heart  and  free. 
The  living,  not  the  dead, 
He  dealt  with,  and  he  said  : 
««  The  world  is  glad  and  young, 
And  good  to  me." 

And  ever  since,  mankind 
Is  shuttled  back  and  forth 
Between  these  singers  twain 
Of  glad  and  sad  refrain  :  — 
The  southland  warm  and  kind, 
The  bitter  north. 


PLAINT   OF   THE   PINE 

I  FOUND  a  pine  that  shot  its  solemn  bole 
Twice  fifty  feet  against  the  summer  sky 
From  out  a  sunless  gorge  ;  and  sad  of  soul 
It  seemed,  until  I  sought  to  question  why  ; 
Whereat  the  tree  moaned  darkly  —  made  this 
strange  reply  : 

tl  I  am  troubled  betimes,  I  am  sad  in  my  sleep, 
Foreboding  the  day  I  shall  stagger  and  leap 
And  tremble  through  tempests  o'er  seas  that  are 
deep. 

"  They  will  fashion  me  forth  for  a  ship  ;  they  will 

make 

My  stature  and  girth  but  a  mock  ;   they  will  break 
My    branches    and    rend    me    for   merchanting's 

sake. 

"  Eternal  unease  shall  be  portioned  to  me, 
A  creature  firm  rooted  and  fain  so  to  be,  — 
Eternal  unease  on  the  shifting,  loud  sea. 

«'  For  each  to  his  nature  ;  and  mine  is  to  grow 
Tall,  sombre,  and  steadfast,  and  gravely  a-row 
With  brothers  as  grave,  while  the  centuries  go. 

"  I  am  troubled  betimes,  I  am  sorely  oppressed, 
As   I  ponder   and   dream   on   my  mother-earth's 

breast, 
With  a  fear  of  the  ocean,  that  knoweth  not  rest." 


TRAGEDIES 

TWO  kinds  there  are  :  the  one  theatric,  bold, 
A  murder,  maybe,  horrible  to  see, 
Lives  lost  by  fire  or  flood,  and  bodies  cold 
That  speak  some  tale  of  awful  agony  ; 

The  other,  mumming  'neath  a  milder  name  : 
A  human  soul  that  as  the  days  go  by 

Sinks  deeper  down  into  some  pit  of  shame, 
Yet  knows  the  stars  shine  silvery  and  high. 


53 


FLASHES 

A  FLASH  of  the  lightning  keen! 
And  lo !  we  know  that,  miles  on  miles, 
The  dim,  lost  land  is  lying  green. 

It  brims  our  heart  with  joy,  the  whiles, 

To  see  that  through  the  thick  night-screen 

Full  many  a  meadow  smiles  and  smiles. 

A  flash  from  the  poet's  brain! 

The  meaning  of  the  many  years, 
That  mazeful  seemed,  grows  very  plain ; 

The  level  lands  of  gloom  and  tears 
Hint  holy  heights,  turn  bright  again  ; 

The  night  a  transient  thing  appears. 


LAUREL 

ALONG  the  road  in  the  month  of  June, 
With  all  the  roses  in  their  prime, 
The  laurel  blooms  and  hears  the  tune 
Of  all  the  birds,  for  'tis  their  time 
Of  fullest,  fairest  singing. 

And  no  man  meets  awake,  a-dream, 

A  daintier  pink  on  lady-cheek 
Than  paints  those  clustered  cups  that  seem 

Like  nuns  demure  and  over-meek, 
So  close  together  clinging. 

Some  flowers  are  for  city  walks, 

And  some  o'er  love's  light  lattice  climb  ; 

And  some  are  noisome  on  their  stalks, 
While  others  scent  the  summer  time 
In  quiet  garden  closes. 

But  most  of  all,  methinks,  I  love 

Along  some  road  of  solitude 
To  see  the  laurel,  flower  of 

A  simpler  yet  a  sweeter  mood 
Than  any  mood  of  roses! 


55 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

AT  dawn  she  sought  the  Saviour  slain, 
To  kiss  the  spot  where  he  had  lain 
And  weep  warm  tears,  like  Spring-time  rain  ; 

When  lo !  there  stood,  unstained  of  death, 
A  man  that  spake  with  slow,  sweet  breath  ; 
And  "  Master  !  "   Mary  answereth. 

From  out  the  far  and  fragrant  years, 
How  sweeter  than  the  songs  of  seers 
That  tender  offering  of  tears ! 


So  was  it  done  :  one  awful  day  and  night  A  Legend  of 

(Uncalendared  within  that  dateless  land)  the  Moon 

The  liquid  flame  licked  down,  and  ceasing,  left 
Ashes  and  bones  and  formless  waste,  wherefrom 
The  some-time  splendor  of  a  world  had  been. 
And  he,  the  moon-man,  whom  the  children  know, 
The  childlike  hermit  of  this  elder  race, 
Was  left  alone. 

And  now  a  bleak  despair 

And  sorrow  nipped  his  blood,  and  he  was  fain 
To  perish  by  his  cave.      But  erst  at  eve 
He  stood  within  a  strange  and  windless  plain 
And  with  lack-lustre  gaze  beheld  where  shone 
Through  trackless  leagues  of  space   the   clustered 

lights 

Of  constellations,  idly  looked  upon 
Fixed  stars  of  vibrant  flickerings,  did  mark 
The  changeless  glow  of  planets  in  their  path, 
Argent  or  gold  or  ruddy-faced  like  Mars : 
And  saw,  or  deemed  he  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw, 
A  shape,  that  moved  upon  one  orb,  the  earth, 
A  silver  cirque  that  lit  the  nether  sky. 
Whereat  a  tremor  shook  his  spirit  lax, 
And  it  grew  tense  :  his  soul  was  hung  upon 
That  shifting  thing,  that  blot  against  a  star, 
Until  he  knew  it  for  a  mortal  man 
And  wept,  and  cried  aloud,  to  think  that  he 
Was  less  companionless. 

Thereafter,  though 

His  lot  was  gruesome  and  his  sorrows  lead 
Against  his  heart,  a  kind  of  pensive  calm 

73 


A  Legend  of   Settled  within  him  as  he  watched  our  orb 
the  Moon     Thro'  years  and  sweeping  cycles,  e'en  to  Now. 
Nor  had  he  will  to  die,  because  of  this 
Weird  watch  and  ward,  this  brooding  over  us. 
Nay,  once  he  even  smiled  a  moment's  space, 
Beholding  how  a  deed  of  charity 
Was  done  a  lonesome  soul  :  and  once  his  eyes 
Looked  dreamy  in  their  sockets  gaunt,  because 
An  earth-poet's  fancy  dubbed  yon  yellow  ball 
An  octorom  beside  those  slim  white  girls, 
The  stars.      But  most  his  mood  set  sorrowward, 
And  most  his  sighs  were  like  the  homeless  wind 
That  moans  about  the  gables  in  the  night. 
Sleep  does  not  visit  him  from  month  to  month  : 
Mandrake  nor  poppy  may  not  lure  his  eyes 
From  earthward  quest ;  awake  and  sad,  he  seems 
To  yearn  within  his  poised  and  dizzy  haunt 
For  easement  of  the  warning  in  his  mind 
To  us  of  earth,  lest  we  let  Love  be  lost 
—  That  crystal  candle   'midst  the  bogs  of  hate 
And  guile  and  lack-of-Love  and  lusts  untamed  — 
As  did  his  kindred,  so  their  sorry  case 
Be  ours  :  remembering  that  the  self-same  gods 
Shaped  him  and  us  and  all. 

Be  such  his  thoughts 
Or  no,  he  keeps  his  vigil,  and  his  front 
Looks  dumbly  down,  —  while  I  upgaze  at  him 
And  wonder  if  his  brain  be  not  distraint 
With  horrid  weight  of  memory.      Shall  he  find 
A  final  solace  for  a  fate  forlorn, 
And  meet  with  us  upon  some  higher  sphere 
To  commerce  once  again  with  human  kind 

74 


By  touch  of  hand  and  mouth  and  interchange        A  Legend  of 
Of  words,  a  long  withholden  boon  to  him  ?  the  Moon 

So  far  the  moon  has  .whispered  :  here  she  stays 
Her  silver  secrets,  leaves  me  unappeased. 

Along  came  Science  in  a  surly  mood 

Of  introspection,  harked  awhile,  nor  spake, 

Frowned    ominously,    and  then   at    length  found 

speech, 

That  made  but  tatters  of  my  peopled  moon, 
The  mid-air  ship  that  bore  my  single  fleece 
Of  story.      '  Tis  a  lie,  quoth  he,  for  ne'er 
Since  chaos  was  there  breath  on  yonder  orb 
Nor  moving  wight,  nor  sound  of  speech  nor  song 
To  make  the  mountains  merry  and  the  plains 
Vital  and  thick  with  voices :  None  but  babes 
And  sucklings  can  be  fooled  with  such  a  myth. 
Whereat  mine  answer  :    Men  are  children  still, 
And  love  their  legends  and  their  wonder-tales. 
Moreover,  came  the  record  not  from  heaven. 
From  very  heaven  upon  a  cloudless  night  ? 
So,  Science,  leave  me  to  my  conjuring 
Of  moons  and  mortals  and  of  olden  days. 


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Lyrics  of  brotherhood. 


Oct. 26 f 16 


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